


So Mote It Be (A Conversation in Elysium)

by writingsbysam



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Ancient History RPF
Genre: A little cliche to be honest, Ancient History, Death, Elysium, F/M, Friendship, Hubris, M/M, Parallels, Poetry, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29863764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingsbysam/pseuds/writingsbysam
Summary: A world in the palms of our hands, a love grander than history, a shadow almost longer than the gods, and the same damning flaw."We have killed the gods. Long live the gods.""So mote it be."
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Alexandros III of Macedon | Alexander the Great/Hephaistion of Macedon
Kudos: 4





	So Mote It Be (A Conversation in Elysium)

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished a book on Alexander the Great and honestly the parallels to Achilles and Patroclus made me so sad, so here's a little piece of poetry that I wrote to avoid doing my biology.

“The three of us are the same”, spoke the warrior, “we have the same story, the same endings, and the same flaws.”

“I wanted to be you, you know,” the conqueror said, a bitter dry laugh coming out of his cracked lips, “I had everything, I just needed to change the ending. We both know how that worked out.” 

“On the surface, I wanted to be anything but you,” confessed the poetess, “I knew your stories, knew our flaws, but deep down I knew that I wanted to be exactly like the both of you.” Her face glowed in the asphodelian light as she turned a grape around in her hand, “I almost wished to evade fate, become a priestess or die trying.”

“I always thought you would make a better priestess than a poet. The Pythia perhaps,” the warrior chuckled. 

“What a dichotomy, a priestess and a heretic. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, ‘a priestess and a heretic walk into a bar…’” she threw a grape at his mouth, “don’t you have a boyfriend to be pestering?”

“He’s around here somewhere, talking to an old friend, apparently one of the Olympians made their way down here, permanently,” he shrugged, “with their believers turning away even the strongest gods are fading. The most human ones first.” He tossed a pointed look at her. 

“I’m the only one of us whose love will never make it down here, mankiller,” she shot back, venom in her voice, “no need to mock me when you have him.” 

“Lay off her. I mean even I have someone. Let her rest,” the conqueror interjected.

“Alright, but he’s here you know. He’s not taking it well though,” the warrior said, “he still loves you, priestess.” 

“It’s been over a thousand years since I’ve heard his voice. He asked me to marry him. I said yes, the other immortals said no. That was the last time I heard his voice. There’s no need to mock me, I know that his love is fleeting as the prophecies he gives. He must have forgotten me,” she stated. 

(He didn’t, he never forgot us. Not once in all the timelines, in all the infinite universes.)

This isn’t real. In this world there is no poetess. She is me. I am her. The warrior doesn’t know my name. The conqueror knows not our flaws, our fate. Fate is dead. This only happens in my mind. Sometimes I think it’s real. She is me and I am her. 

In these visions of Elysium, we are all the same, Achilles, Alexander, and I.

The warrior who was nearly a god, the greatest conqueror nearly made immortal, the poetess with words eternal. 

A world in the palms of our hands, a love grander than history, a shadow almost longer than the gods, and the same damning flaw. The visions cloud my sight again, an endless summer, grapes sweeter than honey, and two people that understand:

_ “We were remembered, no?” A dry chuckle sounded from the warrior. _

_ "Nearly more than the gods themselves,” the conqueror spoke. A smile grew on our small group’s faces,  _

_ “Then we have achieved our goal,” I said, a wolven grin stretched across my face,“We have killed the gods,” a laugh, “Long live the gods.”  _

_ “Long live the gods,” they echoed, smiles brighter than supernovas. _

_ “So mote it be,” I spoke in a grave voice. I threw another grape at his mouth. _

**_We laughed. The world was finally ours._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
